


Locked

by berryvonne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Rewrite, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3868546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berryvonne/pseuds/berryvonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I decide to put the incredibly angsty confrontation scene between Irene and Sherlock into words. Still don't know what's the term for this sort of thing, or if there even is a term.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked

**Author's Note:**

> Irene Adler had been so close. So very close. She didn't understand why this was happening to her.
> 
> Dialogue, scene and plot belong to BBC. I only own Irene's inner monologue.

She didn't understand why this was happening to her.

Irene Adler had been so close. So very close. The elder Holmes had swept his eyes over her requests, face pale like the paper he held in his hand. He would accept it. He had to accept it.

Because what she had threatened to do wasn't a joke.

_I know what they like._

Her entire life in a sentence; the company motto of nothing but her body and brain. She still kept all the souvenirs from the ones she had bothered to play with, making their pasts a part of hers too.

Irene once read a story about the Styx in Greek mythology, the river that marked the boundaries between earth and hell, said to be littered with broken dreams- a wilting rose, a torn graduation certificate, a broken glass. She liked that story a lot.

Pasts. Utterly useless to the ones who own them; yet used in the right way they were the deadliest weapons. The dot in history would turn into a line, and that line an era.

Irene created her own era.

The fifteen-year-old teddy bear from her first deal, an exchange of sex and a well-written history essay. Irene could still remember how desperate Amelia Banks had been, who all but tossed herself to Irene's feet after months of faraway admiring, and of course a little play on Irene's part. She had gotten an A on that essay.

Nobody had suspected a thing. The teacher had assumed that the smart Miss Adler was finally keeping up her game. She was, in a way.

That was how it began. An old favourite book, a beloved bracelet, a striped necktie. It wasn't how precious the things were to Irene that did the trick; it was how precious they were to those who sought her out.

She always knew how to make them feel wanted.

The right words, the correct approach...men or women, Irene _knew._ Sometimes the piece of gag cloth she owned came in use; other times she secretly rubbed ice on her breasts beforehand to make them stiffen, make her _clients_ think that at that moment only one person existed in Irene Adler's world, and that one person was them.

But all the while, the only person that ever existed in Irene Adler's world was Irene Adler.

It was also the reason nobody truly knew what she was like; no two sets of descriptions ever matched up. She was always someone else, other than herself.

Her age increased, and so did the class of her clients. Why make a deal with a student who would help you with your thesis if you had the professor under your thumb? There were rumours, of course. There were always rumours, and her clients would always want to back down, and Irene would always have a Plan B.

Perhaps the professor had a loving wife, one he didn't want to lose.

Perhaps the office worker was dating her boss only for money.

Perhaps the government official needed to maintain his reputation.

Plan B always worked, if Plan A didn't already. And so it had worked on Sherlock Holmes.

"One lonely, naive man desperate to show off," His brother had said, voice filled with contempt.  "And one woman clever enough to make him feel special."

_I'm clever enough to make everyone feel special._ And always will be. Because she knew what everyone liked, didn't she?

Didn't she?

"No." Sherlock suddenly said.

"Sorry?"

"I said no." And he got up, laying out his lines like a desperate actor improvising on spot. She looked at Sherlock as he got up from the chair, making his way towards her. Steadily, he returned her gaze, eyes glinting with confidence. Irene didn't like that confidence. People should know when they're being stupid. She shouldn't expect that much from a man who's almost always right with everything, though; here he is, eager to show off, perhaps one more time before she brought him and her brother down together, along with the nation.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."

"Sentiment?" Her lips tipped upwards, an involuntary mock. "What are you talking about?"

"You."

Very, very deep down, something shattered.

"Oh dear god." She said, her voice trembling just a little. The suggestion that _she,_ of all people, could develop any sort of sentiment for a man like _Sherlock Holmes..._  "Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you. Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

It was sarcasm. The poorest form of wit, John Watson had described on his blog; surely Sherlock Holmes could tell it was sarcasm, couldn't he?

Not the truth. It wasn't the truth. It  _couldn't be_ the truth.

"No," The detective leaned forward; took her hand in his.

The truth.

Her breathing caught as he got closer, closer...then, a faint whisper beside her ear.

"Because I took your pulse."

_The truth._

She looked into Sherlock's eyes, and knew.

_He_ knew.

**_The truth._ **

"Elevated. Your pupils. Dilated."

He leaned over then, picked up the phone on the desk behind her.

"I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive." Sherlock's voice was back to normal, then, plucking out a memory of John.

_Look at us both,_ she had told the doctor, mockingly.

_Look at us both,_ her mind seem to be telling her heart now in the same tone.

"When we first met you told me that a disguise is always a self-portrait, how true of you. The combination to your safe, your measurements." The detective rattled off, his eyes continuing to bore into Irene's, but she could not do anything save for letting his words echo around, each sentence pricking into her like thorns on a rose.

"But this, this is far more intimate, this is your heart-" Irene watched, swallowed, as he moved his gaze from her to the phone he had in his hands, punched down the first key. "And you should never let it rule your head."

"You could have chosen any random number, walked out of here today with everything you've worked for—" His thumb punched at another key again, at her protection, her world was falling apart— "But you just couldn't resist it, could you?"

_I couldn't._ Her heart froze over, years of barriers and walls and protection crumbling and turning into dust, dust that would soon be blown away by every single word Sherlock Holmes uttered, words that were cruel yet true. The unfamiliar wetness was taking over her eyes, while his was indifferent, cold— and yet those were the eyes— _those were the eye_ s—

"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage." Another key. "Thank you for the final proof." That was the word, the word she had casted away so long ago, but how ironic, that the most deadly weapon she had used against so many people was turned upon herself.

Love. She loved Sherlock Holmes. She loved his brain, loved his never-relenting, the feeling that someone was a match for her, she loved that he was trying to resist her though now it was clear she was the one trying to resist him, she loved toying with him and somehow being toyed by him, and even now, after everything, all the humility, pain, _bitterness_ he just put her through, she loved him, and was ashamed of it.

She loved his eyes.

"Everything I said. It's not real." She shook her head, just a little, lowering her voice down to a whisper. "I was just playing the game."

"I know." He whispered back, punching in the final key. The final letter. The final step. "And this is just losing." Sherlock showed the phone to her, as if she didn't see it and smile a bit every time she unlocked her phone, as if she needed a reminder of how she _lost,_ utterly and completely lost, and yet she loved him so much, even as her lock screen told it.

I AM [SHER] LOCKED

She was locked, and there was no way out; she was locked, and she remembered the day she changed her pass code, laughing a little at how well it worked, how _clever;_ she was locked, and nobody could save her now, not even herself. Tears, hot tears of shame and rage and pain, rolled down her cheeks.

And she watched it being handed over, just like that. Her protection.

Irene Adler hated that feeling you get at the back of your throat when you’re about to cry, and until today, didn't expect she would feel it again. "Are you expecting me to beg?" Finally she found her voice, managing to keep it under check.

"Yes." Came the short, cold answer. _Is this revenge?_ She wanted to ask if he was playing her, if he was enjoying it…of course, she had no right to say anything about it.

_...until you begged for mercy twice._ She had told him.

"Please." Once more, she relinquished. The attacker was now the victim; a lioness now a lamb. If Sherlock Holmes wanted her to beg for her life, for survival, it was the only way. "You're right. I won't even last six months."

"Sorry about dinner." He only said, and went out of the room. She felt the other man’s gaze, but refused to meet it. Knowing that if she did, she would only see pity.

She was locked, and the only man who had the key just left.


End file.
